I want to turn on an
inside pitch.
I want to feel the ball
against my bat.
I want to feel a death
like that.
I read my daughters Cat In The Hat,
thought I was a good
dad; that was rich.
I want to turn on an
inside pitch.
I lost myself in husband
fat,
dreamed of dusty
diamonds, that old itch.
I want to feel a death
like that.
I’ve sat where the
players sat,
bitched where the
players bitch.
I want to turn on an
inside pitch.
The pitcher glares at
me, tugs his hat.
I want to knock him in a
ditch.
I want to feel a death
like that.
Somewhere, my swing has
lost its hitch.
Somewhere, my belly and
the land are flat.
I want to turn on an
inside pitch.
I want to feel a death
like that.
— James Cummins